And Hope Says, Perhaps Today
by thisbloodycat
Summary: It's for the best, Draco keeps telling himself—over and over like an endless mantra. But self-deception has never been that high on his list of coping techniques.
1. Chapter 1

Written for mpregfest 2015, for a prompt by the lovely capitu. I tried to stay as close to your prompt as possible, but this thing sort of had a life of its own, I suspect! Thank you pasdexcuses, iwao and panicparade, my three wonderful betas. Your help was what kept me going most of the time.

Contains: mpreg, secrets, boys being boys, bottom!Draco and a massive amount of pining.

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 **And Hope Says, Perhaps Today**

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The true problem is that Draco never planned to sleep with Potter.

He may have daydreamed about it on occasion, and not even all that often, to be fair. Just on those days when work was particularly slow, or when he walked past one of those huge Firebolt adverts on his way home; the ones with Potter shirtless, a light sheen of sweat making the sides of his neck glow warmly under the flash of the camera as he flew forwards in an infinite loop.

Or, most commonly, when Pansy walked into the shop in the middle of the afternoon carrying a battered copy of the __Prophet__ under her arm. She'd sit down, sipping at her takeaway coffee, and proceed to read yet another article about Perfect Potter's not so perfect love life—loudly, and complete with dramatic hand motions.

But still, Draco never actually planned to sleep with Potter.

If he had, he might have gone about it a bit differently. There might have been apologies and late night dinners at expensive restaurants, getting to know each other—birthday presents, valentines, mistletoe kisses. There might have been, most importantly, a brief period called dating before the actual falling into bed together. Because Draco is most definitely not a cock slut. Even if he's feeling a lot like one at the moment because there hasn't been any of that.

Instead, there's Draco naked underneath the sheets, his clothes strewn all over the floor, and then there's Potter, naked as well—naked and __asleep—__ right next to him. Only he's not going to sleep forever. He'll wake up eventually and there'll be questions then, he'll give Draco his best apologetic look, all while trying to explain that this was clearly a mistake, that they'd been drunk out of their wits, that this means nothing.

And Draco feels so stranded as he pulls on last night's trousers. The clean shirt he grabs from his wardrobe feels like the last thread connecting him to reality. It's stupid, bordering on unreal—it's absolutely ridiculous—but he still finds himself standing there, clutching the expensive material in his hands so hard there'll probably be wrinkles when he wears it.

He Apparates away.

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Draco stares down at his hands. His fingers curl tightly around the warm china of his teacup, cradling it in his palms as his thumb strokes along the rim. He's always found Pansy's house comforting—it feels like home in ways his London flat doesn't yet, in ways the Manor hasn't in ages.

Across from him, Pansy hides a yawn behind her wrist. "More tea?" she asks, tilting her head towards the teapot.

Draco smiles, shaking his head slowly. He's had enough to keep him awake all weekend.

"Suit yourself," she says, "but frankly, I hope this doesn't become a habit now. Not that I don't enjoy your company, but there are better times for visiting your friends than—" her eyes flicker towards the clock on the stove, "—six in the bloody morning. Sweet Salazar, are you trying to kill me?" She doesn't sound particularly angry. She sounds amused, weary, possibly a bit worried—and yes, underneath all that, perhaps a bit cross. But Draco knows she loves the gossip and he knows she's his friend, which basically means he knows he'll be forgiven eventually. Even though she'll make sure to bring this up as often as possible. "Not to mention leaving Potter alone in your flat probably wasn't the brightest course of—"

Draco rolls his eyes. "It's Potter, Pans. I doubt he's planning to rob my house."

"No, I don't suppose he would, the great Gryffindor prat." She pauses, tapping her fingers against the side of the table before muttering under her breath, "But then again, perhaps he doesn't need to."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," she says quickly, "nothing at all." She's quiet for a very long time—long enough that Draco has almost forgotten there was a conversation going on, lost as he was in his own mental replay of the previous night's events—before she speaks again. "It's just . . . he's always been special, hasn't he?"

Draco's head snaps up. His muscles tense up so fast he has to let go of the cup to hide the shaking in his hands because he can almost hear the silent 'to you' at the end of that sentence—he's always been special to you, hasn't he?—and __of course__ she'd know that. He's the careless idiot who got drunk and told her Potter's abs looked like something out of a magazine in the Cannon's new calendar last year—so tight, so bloody __perfect.__ If only he could turn back time, Draco would curse himself a hundred times that day. He'd delete it from existence. Possibly curse the Firewhisky as well, just to be safe; after all, he's pretty sure that particular revelation would never have made it past his lips without it.

At least not the bit about how badly he wanted to lick them. (And he did want to lick them. Still does.)

Sadly, Time-Turners are a thing of the past and he's not going to __Obliviate__ his best friend, so there's likely not much he can do about that—but still, he's on the verge of saying something cranky when a slow grin spreads across her face.

Perhaps he ought to curse __her__ instead. "You're such a cow! I've no idea why I thought you'd—"

"And you're always so sweet to me, dear. I don't know what I'd do without you," she shoots right back, holding a hand dramatically to her chest. It's gone in an instant, replaced by her elbows on the tablecloth as she leans forward. "Anyway, do tell," she says, in the sort of lowered tone used for secrets and confessions, "how was it?"

"Fine."

"Fine? Just fine? Is Seeker Potter not as brilliant a shag as the papers make him out to be?"

Draco snorts. "Oh, no. He's brilliant all right." And that's really as much as he plans to say about it—Pansy looks satisfied enough, and she doesn't need to know how Draco's back arched desperately against the mattress as he came down Potter's throat, or how Potter's hands pressed down on his hips hard enough to leave bruises.

Draco, on the other hand, will probably never forget.

He can still __feel__ them.

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He ends up spending most of his weekend at Pansy's. When he finally goes back home late on Sunday evening, Potter is, unsurprisingly, no longer there. He's gone, vanished from Draco's life without so much as a note, and Draco's stomach plummets whenever he thinks about it.

But he tells himself he's fine. And he __is__ fine, for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

A couple of weeks later, Draco stops halfway through unwrapping his scarf to give the scene before him a moment of puzzled deliberation: Potter, sprawled over his couch like he owns the place— _ _Draco's__ place—slowly spinning a lowball glass between his forefinger and thumb. He'd thought Potter looked great before, but now he's stunning—the way his tousled hair draws attention to his face, how even the light frown line between his eyebrows makes Draco want nothing more than to smooth it over . . .

When he lets the door fall shut, the noise seems to startle Potter out of whatever trance he's been in.

"Hello, Malfoy," he mumbles, reaching up one hand to slip along the white cotton of his scruffy shirt's neck. Draco's breath hitches in his throat as his gaze follows the movement—he remembers mapping out the skin there with his tongue, with his _ _teeth__ , and he's not exactly sure if today is his lucky day or one of the unluckiest he's ever seen.

He knew he should have banned Potter from his Floo after that night. He just . . . never did. For some reason. And it definitely wasn't because he'd been hoping this might happen.

"Potter." Draco hangs his scarf up on the rack before turning back around to face him. "Is that my alcohol you're drinking?"

"Unless you've taken to keeping other people's booze around your house, I reckon it must be."

"So you do know this is my house?"

"No, it just seemed like a pretty building to pillage." Potter rolls his eyes. "What do you think?"

"And yet you let yourself in." Draco steps closer—closer still until he's standing between Potter's legs, feeling Potter's warmth through the fabric of his jeans as it radiates across his skin. "Why is that?" he asks, watching goosebumps rise along Potter's arms.

"Why didn't you go to the press after the other night?"

"Why have you come back, after the other night?"

They could stand here forever locked in a perpetual staring match, shooting questions at each other and having nothing come out of it—Draco may not know what they are now, not exactly, but he knows that on some level they're still enemies. They never really made it past that point. Neither of them is likely to give away more than they're receiving.

As Potter lowers his glass to the floor, Draco fervently hopes it's not answers that Potter's come looking for. He hopes the other night felt as otherworldly to him as it did to Draco—that __that's__ why he's here now, that he wants that feeling again and again because at least that's something Draco is willing to give. Something he wants to give.

Potter's hands move lazily up the back of Draco's legs on the way up. His mouth is barely inches from Draco's crotch. "Because I quite liked you on your back," he says slowly, his breath ghosting hotly over the fabric on Draco's trousers as he speaks. "Because I have a proposal for you."

Draco swallows. His throat feels dry, and the tingle of excitement is making his face burn. "Let's hear it, then."

"I thought—it'd have to be a secret—but I thought we could . . . keep doing this."

"What? Growing tired of fame now that you're the nation's star Seeker?"

"I never did like fame, Malfoy," Potter says, and of course he'd like Draco to believe that. It doesn't matter though, Draco knows better—it's not as if Potter needs to pretend to be all righteous around him.

"But right now," Potter goes on, looking up at Draco with his lips slightly parted and an intense look in his eyes, "what I'd really like to do right now is bend you over the back of this couch. And then I'd like to fuck you, again. I'd like to—" his fingers slip into the gap between Draco's thighs. Every word out of Potter's mouth seems to drag along Draco's nerve endings, slowly, deliberately, sending warm shivers up his spine, "—make you come so hard and so often that by the end of it my name is all you can breathe—"

"Merlin . . ."

"—all you can think," Potter whispers.

Draco's legs feel weak. He feels hypnotised, as though he can't run away fast enough from these images Potter's conjuring, as though he wants them more than anything. But he still manages, "I imagine we could come to an agreement."

Later that night, as Potter is making good on his promise of pushing Draco yet again into the delicious abyss between orgasm and unconsciousness, Draco catches himself thinking he wouldn't mind having every single day end up like this.

He doesn't quite get that. What he does get is Potter coming back a third time and a fourth, and then again and again until Draco finally loses count. Draco tells himself that's good—it __must__ be, because he's sick and tired of always making the wrong choices when it comes to Potter, because he still wants Potter more than he's ever wanted any other man.

So he tells himself that's far better than nothing. Even if he's not entirely sure he believes it.

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"I don't get it." Pansy frowns, flipping through that morning's __Prophet__ to skim the sports section before leaving it open on Draco's counter. "Doesn't this bother you in the slightest?"

"Hm?"

"'Seeker Potter to go on week-long holiday to France after Quidditch World Cup, along with his current girlfriend'," she quotes, her polished nails trailing under the headline as she reads. She looks vaguely expectant, as if she thinks Draco must be dying to talk to someone— _ _anyone__ —about this by now. Even though Draco really isn't. Because he promised Potter he wouldn't say a word.

If he's completely honest with himself, he's still a bit in awe that Potter would trust him to keep his mouth shut; half the Wizarding population wouldn't trust him as far as they could throw him and there are days when Draco himself isn't entirely sure he can be trusted—seeing how he can't seem to keep his past from fucking up his present even more. But apparently Potter does trust him.

"Well, is this supposed to be you, then? His current—" Pansy lifts her hands, flexing her fingers to make air quotes around the word, "—girlfriend?"

"I doubt it. Last time I checked I wasn't the right gender to pass off as anyone's girlfriend."

"What's really going on, Draco? Don't think I've forgotten the great mess you managed to make of your life the last time you—"

"Nothing is going on, alright?" he cuts in firmly. "This is nothing like that." There's no Dark Lord, for one, and Draco hasn't sold off his freedom to anyone this time around, let alone his life.

"I thought—people talk, you know? I overheard the Weasley girl telling Lovegood about you at work, the other day, about how Potter has been spending more and more time at your place these past few months, and they just assumed . . ." She snorts inelegantly, slumping down further into her chair. "Of all things, they thought you two had somehow managed to become friends. Imagine my surprise," she goes on, in a derisive tone offset only by the pleading look in her eyes. "Only they don't know half the story, do they?"

"You're right," Draco says quietly, "they don't."

"And apparently neither do I. You never even told me he'd come back after that first time."

Her eyes are fixed on Draco's face as if she were trying to read his thoughts—and if Draco didn't know she's always been pants at Legilimency, he might have been a tiny bit scared. As it is though, he's merely tired—tired of keeping secrets, tired of lying to his friends—to his __family—__ tired of being the one who's only meant to be talked about in whispers, or better yet, not talked about at all.

"So, what is going on?" she repeats.

Draco leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face. "He did come back."

"I thought—when I heard them talking, I thought Potter and you . . . that you might be together now."

Draco laughs once, bitterly, because if only she knew how much—how often—he's wished that was closer to the truth . . . but it's not.

"Only now you claim you're not bothered by him going off in what's likely a romantic getaway with this girl," she states.

They fall silent again, and the minutes pass, and Draco wonders if he could get away with telling her after all. This is Pansy; she's nothing if not tenacious. She's still glaring daggers at him over her takeaway cup, as though she thinks he's committed some sort of capital offence. Draco guesses Potter's girlfriend might agree with her, if she ever finds out—not that she __will__ find out, if Potter has his way.

But Pansy is also Draco's friend. One of the few people who has never betrayed him, not even when her own life was at stake.

"Draco—"

He really should be working. He needs to finish fixing the Foe-Glass Mr Doge brought in this morning and then get started on the twenty or so Sneakoscopes the Ministry wants back by next week. But he's been in a shit mood all day, ever since he read that same stupid article this morning and . . . and it's so ridiculously hard to concentrate when his mind keeps going off on tangents, thinking about Potter and all the things he might be up to.

Pansy is still looking at him with her mouth drawn into a fine line and a concerned look in her eyes. Draco licks his lips because they're suddenly dry, and then he just tries to breathe normally and not panic as he says, "If I tell you, you can't tell anyone about it. I mean that, Pans, silent as the grave, otherwise the—"

"Oh, please," she interrupts, rolling her eyes, "when have I ever ratted on you?"

"It's not like that." Draco's eyes cut away from hers, resting on his hands instead. "We're not actually together. We merely—we have an arrangement of sorts."

"What kind of arrangement?"

"It's . . ." __A sex thing? Complicated?__ "We really just sleep together—" __more and more often,__ "—sometimes. A no-strings-attached kind of deal."

"Really now?" Pansy raises her eyebrows. "And how's that working out for you? Because the Draco I remember from school would never have managed to remain indifferent where Potter was involved."

Draco laughs sharply. Only then he thinks about Potter and his girlfriend who Draco's never met. He thinks about them going on a holiday together and eating croissants for breakfast in their hotel bed, peeling themselves out of their sheets and shaking the stress off over coffee.

He pictures them walking hand in hand through the Petit Trianon, toasting with champagne at midnight in front of the Eiffel tower's silhouette, and suddenly, none of this seems funny anymore. Suddenly, the pitying look Pansy is giving him makes all the sense in the world, and Draco grits his teeth and swallows against the persistent taste of jealousy trying to claw its way up his throat. Sharing has never been one of his strong points, has it? And right now, he hates that more than anything.

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Of course that's not the end of it for Pansy. "You do realise he's never going to leave her for you, don't you?" she asks him the following day, as she steps through the tinted doors into Draco's workshop.

Draco sighs, putting down his wand and burying his head in his hands. "Not now, Pans," he mumbles. "Seriously, not now."

He's been highly strung all day—and tired, so very tired. He's messed up the three charmed teacups he was supposed to fix today—all three of them, for fuck's sake—and he honestly can't deal with any of this right now.

Pansy holds up her hands. "Just saying."

It's only when he goes back home on Thursday night and Potter is there waiting for him that he manages to forget for a while—when he feels Potter's breath on the back of his neck as he slips inside, he gets to pretend everything is fine; as Potter fucks him over the kitchen table, he gets to pretend he's not completely, miserably alone, fooling himself into staying in a relationship that's not actually real, with a person who couldn't care less about him unless he's naked and spread out on his back.

Later, when they're both lying on Draco's bed, legs entwined, Potter's fingers tracing slow circles up the inside of Draco's thigh, he asks, "Doesn't your girlfriend ever wonder where you go at night?" Because he needs to know. Because the question has been eating at him for days.

But Potter just laughs. He laughs, propping his head up on his elbows and says, "We don't actually live together."

He leaves soon after. He goes back to his place—to his life—and Draco is left alone in the dark with his demons and his doubts, and every nerve in him flares with annoyance, and something else he can't quite name.


	3. Chapter 3

"I told you this would end badly. It'll end with you heartbroken, and, as usual, it'll be up to me to pick up the pieces and put them back together."

"Shut up, Pans," Draco says wearily, "just shut up."

"No, not while you insist on turning your life into a bloody nightmare. It's almost as if you're trying to—"

" _ _Please__ , Pans." Draco feels the tightening of his throat, the sharp pricking of tears behind his eyelids, and wants to hex himself for being so bloody sensitive of late—so __weak__. Yesterday he cried over a stupid argument with a client. Today, it seems it's going to be Pansy's words that'll push him over the edge, and there's nothing he can do about it. It's so ludicrous he almost wants to laugh at himself, only then Pansy will be certain he's finally gone round the bend. "I'm just . . . I'm really, really tired. I can't—could we just do this some other time?"

"And when exactly would that be?" Pansy snaps, crossing her arms over her chest, but then she catches the look on Draco's face and her whole countenance softens. "You know, you should probably go to St Mungo's. You're always tired these days, you're always moody, and I'm beginning to think you must have caught something from Potter."

Draco scoffs, but apparently Pansy isn't anywhere near finished.

"No, listen to me," she demands. "He does travel a lot, and there are, what, hundreds of different magical illnesses? Thousands?"

The mere idea makes Draco want to laugh a bit hysterically, because yes, Potter certainly travels all over the place.

He takes a Portkey to Chudley in the morning, to train with his team, and then Apparates to Draco's place to shag him over the sink, like he's so bloody desperate for it he can't even wait until they make it to the bedroom. He travels to France with his girlfriend and then—yet again—to Draco's place to give him a hand job, to watch as Draco's lips tighten when he shudders and as he closes his eyes for the shaky release, spilling all over his chest and into Potter's hand. How has this become his life?

It's not St Mungo's he needs, it's a fucking Mind Healer. An Obliviator to remove every single memory of Potter from his brain—but he's not going to get that, is he?

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He does end up going to St Mungo's, though not exactly by choice.

He's been dozing on and off all night, cuddled up against the cold under his blankets. He wakes up when the morning sun starts drifting through the walls, but decides he's far too tired to get up. That the shop can stay closed for a day. Just one day.

It's not as if Draco needs the money after all—despite all the fines and sanctions and reparations he's had to pay since the war, the Malfoy coffers are still comfortably full. The shop is just something for him to do, and right now, he doesn't feel like doing it. So he turns over and goes back to sleep.

The next time he wakes up it's to Pansy shaking his shoulder like the world is ending outside, calling his name in a sort of panicked voice that has Draco reaching for his wand before he can even process the thought, before his eyes are all the way open—a leftover memory from the war, he guesses.

"You weren't at work, okay? I thought," she starts, taking an unsteady breath at the end. "You haven't taken a single holiday since you opened it, and when I got here you were so still and I—"

"I just fell asleep, Pans." Draco rolls onto his back, stretching his muscles until his back cracks and his shoulders tremble, and he's left feeling a bit light-headed. He's missed breakfast and lunch, and yet he's still so bloody tired. If he could, he thinks he would sleep all day—only now Pansy is here, and he's somehow managed to upset her. "I'm fine."

"Come on, get up. We're going to the hospital."

Draco turns around, burying himself deeper into his blankets. It's warm there. Cosy. "I'd really rather stay in bed, if it's all the same to you," he mumbles, but Pansy shakes her head and gives him a long, even look.

"Well, tough luck," she says at last. "Now up with you."

And so while Pansy makes him a cup of tea, Draco sits up and puts on the blue cashmere V-neck Mother sent him last Yule, and a pair of dark trousers that now feel several sizes too tight at the waist—it's been happening so often lately that he's actually become pretty adept at ignoring it. The kitchen's floor is cold under his naked feet and yet his eyelids still feel heavy, so heavy, almost as though they're weighed down by boulders.

He could fall asleep in a heartbeat, and it occurs to him that perhaps Pansy is right after all. Perhaps he really is sick. He's so drained it doesn't even feel __natural__ anymore, and what does he know about magical maladies anyway?

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Pansy Side-Alongs him to St Mungo's as soon as he's finished his tea, and he sits through test after test feeling like a rookie seer in the Department of Mysteries. The mediwizards tell him to stand still and he does, and when they tell him to hold up his shirt and lie back, he does that as well.

Their wands are cold against his skin, and their magic makes Draco's nerves twist and quiver in a way that feels both ticklish and unfriendly— _ _unwelcome__. So different from the warm crackle of Potter's magic.

But at least they're kind to him, and they don't flinch away when his Dark Mark peeks out from under his sleeve. Draco guesses that's the best he could have hoped for, considering. Even if their speaking in hushed tones over his head is setting him a bit on edge.

Pansy sits nearby all through it, apparently torn between offering encouraging smiles and trying to pat his knee whenever she can get to him. She looks about as nervous as Draco feels, and under different circumstances, Draco thinks he might have been amused—as it is though, he's mostly just grateful that she's there at all.

Eventually, the mediwizards step back. They stare at him from what looks like the borderland between startled and shocked, as if he's grown a second head while they were watching, until one of them—the tall one that looks a bit like McGonagall—clears her throat.

"Congratulations, Mr Malfoy," she says, giving Pansy an odd look before continuing. "Of course, we'll need you to come back next week for us to run a few more tests, but it would seem you're six weeks pregnant."

It's as if a spell has been broken.

The moment she's done talking, the rest of them all launch into an endless speech about male pregnancies—". . . but there's been plenty of research in the past few years," one of them is saying. "What my colleague means to say," another one pipes up, "is that, should any complications arise, you can rest assured that we'll see them through with minimal fuss,"—and about all the things Draco can still do, and the ones he really, really shouldn't—"No drinking or smoking," one of the mediwitches chides, just as another one tells him, "But do try to eat lots of protein, and remember to exercise regularly."

Draco's brain quickly shuts down. He stares out of the window instead, letting their voices blend into one another in the background. On the charmed landscape beyond the glass, autumn is swiftly fading into winter, the snow slowly covering pile after pile of dry leaves upon the ground. The last sparks of colour are being chased away by a heavy white fog.


	4. Chapter 4

"What are you going to do?" Pansy asks. She's sitting on Draco's couch with Draco's head resting on her lap—the exact same couch Potter had lounged on all those months ago, when he'd come back after that first one night stand that wasn't really.

Pansy's fingers comb soothingly through his hair—front to back, front to back. They're probably making a right mess of it, but right now, Draco couldn't care less. Right now, he needs her there to lean against. He needs her there to make sure he doesn't choke on the ball of sorrow that keeps trying to close up his throat.

"What about?"

"The baby, of course."

"Oh, that." Draco sighs, letting his eyes fall shut. "I'm going to keep it, obviously," he says, and Pansy's hand goes still—so very still upon his head. Draco blinks up at her.

"It's Potter's, isn't it? Potter's baby."

Potter's baby. Draco wonders if it'll have Potter's eyes, and hopes to Merlin it won't have Potter's impossible mess of dark hair—thick and wavy and quite possibly spell-resistant. Only then he starts wondering if he'll be reminded of Potter whenever he looks its way, and suddenly his eyes feel watery, and the thick clump at his throat seems far too big to swallow. So he decides to forego further speculation for the time being. He can do that later, if at all.

"I never slept with anyone else," he tells Pansy, "not since that first night." When he panicked and fled to her home. When this whole mad thing was set into motion.

He wonders if he'd have gone about things differently, if he'd known back then he'd end up up the duff. He could have cast protection charms, he guesses—and he __would__ have, if he'd thought this was even remotely possible. It's just male pregnancies are only supposed to happen when there are potions involved, or when a very specific set of circumstances is met—strong magic, intense emotions, a particular alignment of the planets . . .

"Figures. And are you going to tell him about . . ." Pansy trails off, gesturing awkwardly towards his stomach.

"No. Salazar, no." Draco laughs, a dry laugh that sounds more like a sob than he wants it to. "I can't do that. He'll think I'm a circus freak, he'll—" Leave and never come back, Draco's mind fills in for him. Only Harry wouldn't do that, would he?

"I don't know, Draco." Pansy sighs. "Obviously, you must know him better than I do by now, but I keep thinking—I know I told you he'd never leave his girlfriend for you, but don't you think he might now, if only you'd tell him . . ."

Draco shakes his head. "You don't understand. I don't want Potter to stay with me because I'm carrying his child, or because he thinks I need help, or that he's doing the right thing or . . . whatever. I want him to stay with me—" __Because I'm in love with him.__ Because he'd been in love with the prat ever since the day Potter had walked into his shop, claiming to be hiding from the press, or since he'd saved Draco from the fire in the Room of Hidden Things, perhaps even before that, "—because he wants to."

Pansy's lips tighten and her nostrils flare, but all she says is, "Oh, Draco," and then, "I still think you shouldn't have to go through this alone."

Draco smiles sadly up at her. "I'm not alone though, am I?"

He's still got Pansy, and he'll always have Mother. He should write to her, though perhaps she doesn't need to know the whole story.

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Draco writes half a dozen letters to his mother, then __Incendios__ them all. The acrid smell of smoke and burnt parchment fills the room, clinging to Draco's clothes as if it were a solid eroding presence, making his eyes itch as he dips his quill into the ink bottle.

There's obviously no easy way to say this, so he writes, 'Mother, I'm pregnant,' and quickly ties the scroll to his owl's leg.

Narcissa Floos before the week is over. She talks excitedly about her life in their Tuscany villa before pausing to give Draco a thoughtful look. "So when will the wedding be? I'll be applying for a dispensation to attend, of course. Surely even those vacuous, irredeemably lazy good-for-nothings—"

Draco clenches his hands into fists so hard his nails dig into his palms. "Mother, there will be no wedding."

He doesn't look up. He carefully examines his fingernails as his mother's face flickers silently in the fireplace. He doesn't want to see the disappointment in her eyes. He feels as though he's sat through enough pitying looks from Pansy to last him a lifetime—and he's just fine, he's not broken, he doesn't even want to get married, for fuck's sake.

"I see," his mother says moments later. "Perhaps you ought to come visit," she adds softly, "the town looks lovely this time of year."

Draco's mouth tightens. "Perhaps, but not right now."

"Will you at least tell me who the father is?"

No, he won't, not yet anyway. He knows his mother well enough to realise she'd try to owl Potter.

"My back aches horribly in the evenings, I should probably—" he gestures weakly towards his bedroom, "—go lie down for a while."

His mother's frown deepens, and Draco is certain she must have caught on to his last ditch attempt to avoid this conversation. But thankfully, she doesn't ask again.

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It's soon after that that the random vomiting starts. Morning sickness, Pansy keeps calling it, and Draco thinks the name is beyond laughable—especially when, as he soon finds out, it can happen at any point during the day.

It's probably just his luck that he's in the process of getting fairly intimately acquainted with his loo the next time Potter shows up.

"Draco!" Potter calls out from the living room.

"Piss off, Potter," Draco rasps, pressing his forehead against the cold surface of the toilet. Seriously, of all the inconvenient times to drop by—it's almost as if Potter needed to see him at his most humiliating moments.

"Er, Draco? Where are you?"

"I told you to go away!" Draco yells, but when he finally looks up, Potter is standing by the door to the bathroom, looking for all the world as though his favourite hippogriff had just been __Avada Kedavraed__ by a raid of rogue Death Eaters.

"Are you okay?" Potter asks.

It's such a daft question Draco just wants to say, __Yes, obviously__. He wants to say, __This is just something I do during my spare time, Potter. You should try it sometime, it's awfully fun__ , but needless to say, he doesn't get that pleasure. As soon as he opens his mouth to speak, he's—again—too busy emptying his stomach down the toilet to try to make words.

"Merlin," Potter is saying, "what's wrong with you?"

It's really quite a long list: Draco's legs keep cramping, he keeps throwing up, he feels weirdly bloated most of the time—a little like a small whale to be honest, even though the weight he's gained is barely noticeable so far—and then, of course, there's the small matter of being pregnant.

And it's all Potter's fault.

"Stomach flu," Draco lies as soon as the nausea lets up.

"I didn't know—you could have told me you were sick, I would have brought—"

"Just go, Potter. Go back home, or wherever it is you go when you're not here breaking and entering."

"What, and leave you like this?"

"Go away," Draco insists tiredly. "It's probably contagious anyway."

Only Potter doesn't leave. He refuses to leave with that same stubborn set to his jaw Draco had come to know so well during their school days—the same one Potter always wore when Draco mocked him, or when the __Prophet__ called him a liar. Instead, he summons a glass of water from the kitchen. He fetches a blanket from the bedroom to wrap around Draco's shoulders, he _ _kneels__ beside Draco, holding him close while pressing a line of kisses down his temple, and Draco . . . Draco is so exhausted. He's far too exhausted to even brush Potter away.

"Are you feeling any better?" Potter asks.

Draco nods, ignoring the burning sensation behind his eyes. He knows this won't last forever, but he can't help wishing . . . Merlin, he used to be so good at hiding behind a mask, but these days it's as if he's this giant ball of hormones and mood swings, and it's so bloody tiresome, and he feels __cared for__ in Potter's arms.

It's been so long since he last felt that way.

"Come on, let's get you to bed."

"I don't—I'm fine, Potter," Draco mumbles, "you really don't need to stay here."

Potter rolls his eyes. "Git," he says, but he's smiling.

Draco's heart skips a beat.

: :

: :

He's lying against Potter's chest, lulled halfway to sleep by the steady thrum of Potter's heartbeat and the gentle caress of Potter's fingers on his hair, when Potter says, "It's funny how things have turned out, don't you think?"

Draco turns to stare at him. Potter hasn't moved. He's so still he looks like a breathing statue—only his skin is warm and soft, and in no way reminiscent of stone.

"I did want to stay here with you," Potter tells him, brushing a strand of Draco's hair back with his thumb. He sounds surprised. His lips are so close Draco can feel puffs of breath brushing his skin as Potter speaks. "You're gorgeous. You know that, don't you? You're even gorgeous when you're sick."

Draco feels torn. He wants to be left alone so he can brood, he wants to hate Potter for his carelessness—Potter, who probably doesn't even realise what he's making Draco feel, who has no idea that he'll end up hurting Draco in the end.

But he also wants this. He wants Potter to make love to him gently. He wants him to stay afterwards, to cuddle through the night, to bring Draco breakfast in the morning, because apparently he's a bit of a hopeless sop when it comes to Harry bloody Potter.

"Unlike you?" Draco says at last, and he's caught off guard when Potter laughs and rolls them over on the bed, holding Draco down.

"Really now? So is this you trying to run away from me?"

Potter's hips are moving against his crotch, sinfully slow, and he'll never want to run away from this.

"No," Draco says softly.

And that's the whole problem, isn't it? He's wanted so many different things from Potter, but not once has Draco wanted out.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco never sees it coming.

He guesses he should have, what with all the worrying he's been doing about this the past few weeks—at night, when Potter tiptoed around the flat; some mornings, when Draco caught him rummaging through the drawers in his potion cabinet, looking for a Hangover Remedy or a Headache Banishing Potion. And Draco took extra care to keep the cabinet well-stocked. He even went as far as to cast a Disillusionment Charm on every single one of the vials he got from the mediwizards at St Mungo's—even the ones that were just vitamins.

But he's never been all that great when it comes to keeping secrets from Potter.

So when he arrives home from work one evening to find Potter sitting on his couch, looking sullen, Draco just assumes he must have had a really bad day at work. Spectacularly bad, if the way he's drinking straight from Draco's bottle of Odgen's Old is anything to go by.

"Pilfering my drinks again?"

"Well, someone has to." Potter shrugs, but his arms are stiff by his sides, and the look on his face is anything but relaxed. "It's not as if you can drink them, is it?"

It's almost as if time had stopped. Everything seems to have slowed down around them, making the silence in the room feel deafening. It's so quiet Draco can almost hear his own heart thumping away in his chest—too fast, too loud—and he has no idea how to stop this, how to make any of this better.

"You know," Potter is saying, "I did notice you'd put on some weight of late but I just thought—I don't know what I thought, that you still looked good, probably. It didn't even occur to me you could be pregnant."

"What made you think I was?" Draco asks quietly.

Potter shoves a hand into his trouser pocket, pulling out a small glass vial filled with blood-coloured liquid. Plumpton's Prenatal Devigoration Solution. It makes Draco's throat burn when he swallows it and his mouth tastes of mouldy cottage cheese and cheap liquor for hours afterwards, but it's the best—the safest—over the counter sleep aid for pregnant wizards. The only one specifically designed with them in mind.

"I found this in your kitchen last week," Potter says, placing the vial down on the table between them, "right behind your can of Prince of Wales. It was Disillusioned. I would never have found it, except I knocked it over and then heard the noise when it fell off the counter."

"And you thought—"

"I thought I might as well take it with me and find out what you were trying to hide. You must admit it looks a bit suspicious when your supposedly gay lover keeps potions for pregnant women in his kitchen."

"You thought I was sleeping around."

"Perhaps." Potter scrubs his face. "Only then I took it to Hermione and she told me this is actually a potion meant for pregnant wizards."

"You shouldn't have done that," Draco shakes his head. "You should have—"

"What? Left it there and moved on?"

"No, you prat," Draco yells. "You should have just asked me!"

Potter is staring at him, and Draco is pacing through the room because he __needs__ to do something, because he feels so fucking drained right now. He feels so wretched, and he's yelling at Potter when all he really wants to do is lie on his couch with his head on Potter's legs, and maybe talk to him about work or something—something dull that won't make Potter rage. And then perhaps Potter could tell him about his teammates, and Draco could nod along, and they could both be amused rather than angry, and wouldn't that be marvellous?

"Really? And I suppose you would have told me then what you went to all this trouble to keep from me?"

"I might have!"

"I just . . . I don't understand," Potter is saying, "why didn't we use protection if you knew this could happen?"

"Because I didn't know, okay? Male pregnancies are so bloody rare, how was I supposed to know—but of course you're you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I bet your little swimmers could get to the moon if they wanted to," Draco says sarcastically.

Potter snorts. "Oh, so it's mine now, is it?"

Draco nods. His eyes slide away from Potter's face.

Of course it's Potter's baby, only Potter doesn't know that. Draco never told him that he'd slept with no one else these past few months, he never wanted Potter to know just how much this little affair of his meant to Draco. He never wanted him to know it meant __too much__.

"And how can you be so sure it's mine?"

Draco's throat goes tight. He swallows hard. "It just is."

"But you can't know that, can you?" Potter's features harden. "You can't know it's mine. It could be anyone's baby in there, and the only reason you're telling me now is because you want something from me. Just like everyone else."

 _ _I'm telling you nothing!__ Draco wants to yell, __You found out on your own, without my permission. You didn't even__ question _ _yourself before invading my privacy__ , but in the back of his mind, he can still hear Pansy's words. __He's always been special, hasn't he? He's always been special to you.__

It's true. Potter has always been, in some way, the focus of Draco's life—an anchor, keeping him grounded. He'd been someone to befriend and then, later, someone to compete against, and eventually Draco had fallen in love with him. It feels as if Draco's whole life revolves around Potter, but perhaps . . . perhaps it doesn't work both ways. Perhaps Potter has been all those things to him, but that doesn't mean Potter has to feel the same way about it.

Perhaps Draco needs to move forward now, go on with his life. Forget about Potter.

"Leave," he grits out. It was never going to work anyway; he should have seen this sooner.

"Seriou—"

"Leave, Potter." Draco takes out his wand, pointing it at Potter's chest. "And don't bother coming back, this is . . . we're done. It's over."

Draco concentrates on breathing, swallows a couple of times, and by then Potter is taking a step back.

"You know what? Fine!" Potter's breathing is coming faster now, and Draco can feel the heat of Potter's magic on his skin. But he can't remember why it once made him feel safe. "Fine, I'll go. You won't even have to worry about me coming back, it's not as if I'd __want__ to come back to—"

"Good!" Draco snaps.

He watches Potter's face vanish into the green flames of his fireplace before falling back on his couch. __It's for the best. It's really for the best,__ Draco tells himself as he waits for his heart to slow down.

: :

: :

"I think you should take a holiday," Pansy tells him as she walks in. She slings her cloak across Draco's worktable, knocking aside several volumes on numerology. Draco stares at them morosely, but doesn't move to pick them up.

"What, now?"

"Why not? You're not going to be able to keep working all through the pregnancy. Besides, you've been a complete mess ever since you broke up with Potter, I doubt you're getting anything done."

Draco's stitching spell catches his finger, and he glares up at Pansy. "We didn't break up."

"Funny, I seem to recall you dropping by at two in the morning to tell me you just had," she says, "but I guess I could have imagined that."

"We were . . ." __Never together to begin with.__ "Yes, okay." Draco sighs, looking away. "I guess I did that."

"Terribly bad form, let me tell you, waking your friends up like that."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Merlin, you're no fun at all when you're like this!"

Draco glances up, but otherwise doesn't reply. Yes, he knows what she means, but whatever. It's not as if he's here for her entertainment.

"Why won't you visit your mother?" Pansy asks.

"So she can parade me around town and try to marry me off to some rich pureblood or other?" Draco snorts. "I don't think so."

Pansy shrugs. "I doubt it'd be that bad."

"You don't know her."

"I know she'd look after you, you great twat, and it's not as though she'd force you into a marriage you don't want. You can always say no," Pansy says, throwing her hands up. "Your life, your choices."

Choices are such tricky business though. Every day brings new ones, and even now, Draco keeps making all the wrong ones.

"Plus, you said you wanted to move on," Pansy adds softly. "Well, this is your chance. Now do so."

: :

: :

The villa is relatively small—when compared to the manor anyway—but it has tall glass windows and a large garden, and a small lake where wild geese swim during the winter.

Draco spends his first two weeks there feeding them, but when the snow comes and mornings get chillier he takes to the tower. It's a nice place to think, he finds, small enough that his warming charms will hold. He can see the whole town of San Gimignano from up there, and it's really quite beautiful.

"It usually doesn't snow," his mother tells him, "but it's strangely cold this year."

Draco watches through the window as white swallows the roofs, buries the trees outside one by one until they no longer exist. He's always cold these days, despite his magic—cold and lonely; at least the ducks had been company, even if they couldn't talk back. His mother talks to him, but all she has to offer are vacuous statements or questions Draco doesn't want to answer.

"Why are there so many towers?" Draco asks.

Mother just smiles cryptically at him. "Perhaps you should ask the locals."

Draco doesn't, not that week. Though he does ask eventually and receives a variety of answers, some of them easier to believe than others. He guesses they were built to show off, that every well off family in town built their own tower, that they work as a symbol of power of sorts—or at least worked as one, in the past.

His father would have agreed. But Draco likes the other answers better, the ones that sound like stories, the ones about towers that grow while their owners are away. They make him feel a bit like he did when he was younger and Father would read him fairy tales before bed. Even now, they're the ones that allow him to dream.

: :

: :

"Have you been to Sant'Agostino?" his mother asks him one evening, while they're dining.

"Isn't that a church?"

"It is. A Catholic church."

"I'm not Catholic. As far as I know, neither are you."

"True," Narcissa says after a long pause. "You seem sad, I suppose I thought you might like it there. They keep several artworks from the renaissance—paintings, frescoes mostly. You always did enjoy a beautiful scenery."

"It's a church though."

"Indeed."

"Their art would be painted by Muggles," Draco points out, "they've never been particularly fond of magic."

Narcissa sighs, but her lips twitch into a mysterious smile. "And yet that's never stopped you before."

They're both quiet for a while, surrounded only by the sound of forks and knives occasionally clicking against plates. Draco has no idea what his mother is thinking, though she's obviously deep in thought. He's not entirely sure he wants to know either.

"Have you thought about how long you'll be staying?" Narcissa asks.

Draco blinks up at her. "Would you prefer me to leave?"

"No, of course not. You're my only son, I'm glad you decided to visit." Narcissa's eyes hold his gaze. "I just worry about you. I worry that you're running away."

"Like you did?"

"Oh, dear, I never . . ." His mother pushes back her plate. "I wasn't running away from you, you must know that. I was exiled," she says. She sounds sad, but that's hardly surprising. "There's a difference."

"I know."

"It wasn't my choice."

"I know that, I just wish—" Draco drags the fork around on his plate. "I wasn't running away either." Only perhaps he was. "He didn't even believe me when I told him it was his child, did I tell you that? I needed . . ." So many things. He needed to build his own life, for one, but he also— _ _still—__ wanted Potter back. "I needed to get away from him."

"To forget?"

"Yes," Draco says, even though he really means no. So far, he's only managed to decide that the first love is the only one that matters.

"Will you ever tell me his name?"

Draco doesn't answer. He doesn't know what to answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Gradually, the letters stop arriving. He still gets a weekly parchment from Pansy and, once, a Ministry reminder that he ought to pay his taxes in the UK—which he knew already and will do eventually, thank you very much—but that's all. After a while, there are no more angry letters from customers, and no more demands that their orders should be taken care of even though the shop is now closed.

It's odd. Draco doesn't really miss his job—not yet; there's still too much to see, too much to do. But he's put so much work into it over the years that it's a bit discouraging to realise no one's missing him.

He sometimes contemplates writing to Potter, just so Potter will have a chance to write back. But he's not stupid. He knows nothing would hurt more than writing that letter to have it go unanswered, so he never tries.

He does visit that church his mother mentioned, and a bunch of other ones after that one. His mother was right, as usual: they are gorgeous. Besides, it's not as if there's much else to do. The town is some days full of Muggles; they walk around carrying their small clicking devices, and laugh and talk and shoot flashes of light at things.

On his fourth week there, Draco finds a bakery on the way home. Their windows are filled with bread, cakes and pastries, and Draco stares at them pressing his face to the glass, his stomach growling. But he knows he can't buy any of them without Muggle money.

The Muggles talk to him sometimes, and Draco is thankful for the cold. He's glad he can wear his coat everywhere. Disillusionment Charms only go so far, and it's draining to keep them up when his magic is as unreliable as it is these days.

Some of them notice anyway, and he once slips and tells one of them he's pregnant. The man seems shocked at first, but then he just laughs and slaps Draco's back like he's just heard a particularly good joke.

"Oh, that's a good one!" he says, so Draco never mentions it again. Instead, he tells them he's got some sort of hormonal problem, and entertains himself by coming up with names for it.

The Muggles never seem to notice.

: :

: :

"You have a visitor," his mother tells him a few weeks later, when he returns from his daily wanderings through the town and its outskirts. Draco has met quite a few people in the months he's been there, so when he opens the door to the living room to find Potter standing there, he's understandably surprised.

"Hello, Draco."

Draco shivers. He could send Potter away, he could tell him he never wants to see his stupid face again, he could . . .

But he'd be lying, so he simply nods instead.

"I have a proposal for you," Potter says.

"Yet another one?"

"Yeah. But, er, perhaps you'll like this one better?" Potter gives him a hesitant smile. It's a bit off-putting, Draco thinks, to realise the lower half of his face is trying to mirror the expression. He should be cross at Potter. He __was__ cross at Potter when he left.

"All right," he says. "Let's talk, but not here."

He heads to the kitchen to make two cups of tea—his strong; sweet and milky for Potter, just how he likes it—before showing Potter to the back garden. Draco sits on the steps there, holding his cup in his palms. He brings it to his lips and blows the steam off the rim before taking a sip.

"I looked everywhere for you," Potter starts. "I even asked Parkinson, but she wouldn't tell me where you were."

"She's my friend, Potter. What did you expect?"

"Well, she did have a few things to say to me, apparently." Potter pauses in his pacing to look at Draco. "I'm sorry about . . . I shouldn't have said the things I said to you."

"But you did."

"I know I did. I just—I never meant any of it, I was so angry that you'd been keeping things from me that I assumed—"

He looks miserable, and a small part of Draco wants to feel glad, to gloat about being the one who's put that look there— _ _proof__ that he matters to Potter, at least that much. But it's only a small part.

"—I was stupid—"

"Yes, you were," Draco agrees.

"—and I'm sorry."

"Is that why you're here, then? To apologise?"

"No." Potter lets out a slow breath. "I mean, yes, of course. But I also wanted to ask you, would you be willing to come back to the UK?"

"I figured I would eventually." Draco shrugs. "Most likely after the baby is born. I don't actually speak good enough Italian to find a decent job here."

"No, I meant . . . now." Potter chews on his bottom lip. "Would you be willing to come back to the UK now?"

"Why would I do that?" Draco asks, puzzled, only just then something clicks in his mind. The realisation feels like a slap to the face: Potter isn't here because he wants him, he's here because he'd like to be present in his child's life. Draco's eyes narrow, and something that might have been hurt curls through his chest. "Is this because I'm pregnant with your child?"

"No! I miss you." Potter steps closer and captures Draco's hand in his. He puts a kiss there, right on Draco's fingers. "I'm asking you to come back __with me__ , as my boyfriend."

Draco blinks. "Well, you're rather shit at asking."

"I—yeah. I guess I am, aren't I?" Potter chuckles nervously

"Positively terrible. You probably shouldn't try that on anyone else."

"I never intended to—"

"What happened to your girlfriend anyway?"

"Out of the picture. We broke up ages ago, she just—she was a wonderful person but she wasn't you."

"I don't know," Draco states, freeing his hand from Potter's grasp. He rises to his feet and starts walking back to the villa—away from Potter—as fast as he can.

"You don't know?" Potter asks, running behind him. "Draco, wait for me, for fuck's sake! What do you mean you don't know?"

Draco stops abruptly when he reaches the backdoor. "You wanted an answer," he says without looking at Potter. "I don't know. That's my answer. I don't know if I should go back with you, it didn't exactly work out for me the last time I agreed to one of your ideas, did it?"

"Okay." A light breeze blows across Potter's face, sending strands of hair whipping across his forehead. Draco itches to push them back, to run his hands through that hair. It feels so much softer than it looks.

"That's okay," Potter is saying, "I can wait until you've made your decision."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I promise I'll respect that."

"You'll leave me alone?" Draco presses. "For real this time?"

Potter stares down at his feet. "For real this time."

: :

: :

It takes Draco two full months to come up with an actual answer.

Harry rents a small studio near the Collegiata, but visits Draco everyday. He brings him sweets and flowers and chocolates, and takes Draco out to dinner almost constantly. In some ways, it feels a bit like a dream.

"So it was him," Draco's mother says one day, and Draco grins down into his teacup.

It was him. It was __always__ him.

Near the end of the second month, Harry goes back to England for a week. After taking a Portkey back to San Gimignano, he assures Draco—who has never even asked—that he's put all his affairs in order. He says he's talked to his team captain and told him he'd be prolonging his holiday.

"Are you sure that's wise? What if he sacks you?" Draco asks, but Harry rolls his eyes and says, "While I appreciate your concern, I'm not nearly as destitute as you seem to think."

When Draco comments on the obvious growth of his vocabulary, Harry simply tells him he's learnt from the best. And that's the exact moment Draco comes to a decision. Only he doesn't get to tell Harry straight away because he really needs to use the loo—one of the perks of being an even bigger whale now, he guesses.

Still, he tells Harry afterwards, as soon as he gets back. "Yes," he says, "I'll go back with you."

Harry drops his fork. "Really?" He looks like he's going to laugh or cry, or possibly even do both at the same time.

"Really."

"I know it's going to be all over the papers, 'Harry Potter, getting it on with former Death Eater—"

"Shut up, Harry."

"—and I know it's not ideal, but well, maybe—"

"Harry."

"Yeah?"

"It's a start, all right?" Draco kisses Harry softly on the lips. "It's a start."

Outside, the bells are ringing, and Draco raises his glass—still filled with water, much to his dismay. To the first day of the rest of our lives, he thinks.

: :

: :

FIN

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Thank you for reading! :)


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